Where's Dara?

7 February 2007

Today I traveled to Kabul from Kunduz. Supposedly there is a flight from Kunduz to Kabul on Wednesdays. At least that is what the schedule says. Here in Afghanistan, schedules are made but often broken. There was no flight today.

Anvar, our regional admin guru, put it succinctly, “Dara, they are not going to send a plane for one or two people to the North. The South will always be the priority.” He added, “Don’t go to Kabul so much!” [I am working on a project in Kabul right now.]

So, at 7:15 am, I embarked on my third road mission between Kabul and Kunduz in less than a month. The flight schedule, you see, is infinitely reliable.

The drive is actually not that bad—and I am merely a passenger. It is a beautiful drive through changing terrain, and the road is well paved. The most stressful stress-especially in the winter—is the Salong Pass, and, of course, the infamous tunnel built by the Soviets.

Here are some pictures of the road today between Baghlan and the Salong Pass:

Just past Puli Kumri, Baghlan

Another road scene

A door to a home

A village scene

Entering the area of the Salong

Snow of the Salong

Leading to ‘the’ tunnel is a series of open tunnels. Designed primarily to protect the road from avalanches, though they still occur in other areas of the Pass. Just in December a couple people died on the Kabul side in an avalanche.

Here are some pictures from 2005 of the open tunnels:

View of Salong tunnels from Kabul side in 2005

Series of Salong tunnels from Kabul side 2005

The tunnel itself is one of the more ominous and strange tunnels I have driven through.
When I drove it the first time this time in Afghanistan, you could barely see in front of the car. That was September.

A picture of the tunnel entrance at the time.

Entrance to closed tunnel in Salong, 7 September 2006

When we drove down just before Christmas, we could only see the lights running along the midline above. The dust, fog, mist, what ever you want to call it, was so thick that you could only see a vehicle’s lights when it was almost upon you. That was not a fun ten minutes to experience. Today, though, it was relatively clear and only small patches of black ice.

What struck me on this trip down to Kabul was how little snow was left. Normally, according to our Afghan staff, February is the month when the snow falls and the Pass is closed, or only open in one direction. Today, in contrast to two weeks ago, we did not even think about putting snow chains on. While a dusting of snow still covered the area, the ground was peeping through. Had winter ended so soon?
One of the two events of any road mission to Kabul are:

(a) the bathroom breaks; and
(b) lunch.

Afghan men, like all men given the chance, have no compunction communing with nature on the side of the road. Traveling with at least 4 men every time (2 drivers and 2 security guards to accompany the drivers on the return trip), it is always amusing to witness the group exodus for the call of nature. They fan out across the field on the side of the road, with no shelter.

As a woman, and a woman in Afghanistan surrounded by men, the problem stems not from going to the bathroom outside, which is no big deal, but from the fact that outside is, well, pretty exposed.

I remember the trip in September, and needing to answer the call of nature on the Salong. Nice mountainous area, you think. No so. There are no trees. Just rocks—and not big ones at that. Not only did I travel down a mountain side, but them had to locate a medium size rock that would protect my modesty somewhat (and I am small!) and then just pray that no car came. After this experience, I believe that I have a better understanding as to why Afghan women wear long shirts which fall just above the knees. The long shirt was somewhat helpful.

The second event, lunch, is always awkward as a woman in Afghanistan. Going to a public restaurant—and there are only two—across the street from one another— that our drivers tend to frequent. Kabob and Kabuli pilau (with carrots and currants and a hunk of lamb hidden under oil-drneched rice) are the two main choices and they come accompanied by a plate with various vegetables. Sometimes the guys hide me in a private room, sometimes, they feel comfortable enough to eat in the main area. One time, when I was with Gabriela (Head of Office), we let the guys go and eat, and chatted in the car, munching on apples.

Today, we went to the smaller of the two restaurants. It only having one area, we ate there.

The interior of the restaurant.

The guards and some of the drivers.

Fazal, one of our drivers, has gone with me on most of my trips to Kabul. He is one of the sweetest guys, and always takes care of me. We chat a bit, and then the driving narcolepsy kicks in… off into a light ‘car sleep’ I go, waking up at every jolt, swerve, etc. Today I awoke at one point, about 45 minutes in because a BBC radio program was on. Just hearing it on the radio awoke me. They were talking about drugs, poverty and gangs in the US.

Soon after we passed an outdoor animal market, throbbing with Afghan men, come to seel their wares.

At one point we saw 5 women crossing the street on horses. 2 were wearing a burkha and three were covered head to toe with a red cloth printed with a bandana-like pattern.

We passed boys playing along the side of the road.

We passed shepards.

We passed the pottery shops were stopped at last time.

And then we hit the chaos of Kabul. The cars mixing with horse drawn carriages. Vendors forming market areas along the road. The paved roads, intermingled with the gravel road, intermingled with the mud, water filled pits of streets. And then, there you were. The center. The billboards, the Serena hotel, the fortified compounds of the key organizations. And then we were at the gate, driving into Headquarters.

5 and 20 February 2007

“We have a problem,” Aleks was telling me over the phone.

“What?” I asked.

“With the cook,” he responded. “You will see it in the email.”

Ten minutes later comes the email.

Subject line: “Cook dissatisfied.”

In Afghanistan, as I have explained before, we all live in ‘guest houses’. These group houses can be ‘private’ or ‘commercially’ run. Obviously, the ‘private’ houses tend to be more like a house. In most every ‘guest house’, you not only have the requisite security guards, but you have at least one chokidoor (house boy), and, normally, a cook.

Houses have cooks in large part because, especially in field offices, people eat all meals at their ‘guest house’ and given the number of people, it is likely that some do not cook. While we did not have a cook last year, we were also in Kabul and had international food shops at our disposal, as well as restaurants. In Kunduz, we have but one restaurant and few shops with novelty items such as pasta, cheese, etc. Kabob or bust! In my house, while I often cook, some housemates struggle with boiling water. The cook is the life line.

Our cook, Gertie, had come to us through some housemates when they moved in from a guest house that was closing down. An Afghan from Taloqan, Takhar—the capital of the neighboring province)--he had been a refugee in Pakistan and apparently cooked at the Italian consulate in Peshawar, Pakistan. Hmmm.

Mid to late 40s or early 50s, he was a puttering presence in our house, always awaiting feedback on the food, or watching intently while I cooked.

He was a pretty good cook for Afghanistan. He cooked nice soups, baked some good (though slightly too sweet) cakes, and decent meat dishes. He, however, did overcook pasta... He also was in charge of buying all the food. While there had been some tension with him about money and the availability of decent ingredients, generally all was good.

Then, the day of email. He apparently had stormed out of the house--throwing his books to the new house manager. When we arrived back home that night there was no cook.

At a house meeting, it turned out that there were two issues: money and conflict with the chokidoor. On the first, apparently, he asked for more money and the house manager would not give him. To all of us, it appeared that money was being skimmed but we had no proof. On the second, he was upset that the new house manager asked the choikdoor to get--now get this--water, oranges and apples in bulk. Territory was violated.

It was decided that I should mediate for the house. Gerdie liked me, as a fellow cook. So, we arranged a meeting.

It took 2 hours of neogtiating. I even had to negotiate between Gerdie and our chokidoor, Saleh, who would get the morning naan (bread).

He was to return the following Sunday (beginning of the week). I left for Kabul before he was to come back. I arrived back from Kabul and there was no cook. Apparently, the house manager had gone through the books and found clear evidence that he had been skimming money from the house. Out he went.

We still have no cook. Our ever able chokidoor, Saleh, is doing his best for the house. Only in Afghanistan.

Daria requested that this little anecdote goes on the blog:

(that’s her)

On Sunday, I was quietly sitting at my desk, working on my computer (It being a workday and all). Ghizal, my office mate and assistant, calls to me, after picking up her phone:

“Dara!,” she says.

I turn to face her—she is cradling her phone against her face, talking to me and the phone. “Yes?” I ask.

“The doctors says that you must go and get the shot,” she responds.

“What shot?”

“The.. shot. You must get it”

“What is the name of the medicine,” I asked – confused and dubious.

She talked into the phone quickly in Dari and then looked up and said hesitantly, “the bird flu shot.”

“Sorry?,” I say.

“The flu shot. The bird flu shot. You must get I,.” She said somewhat insistently.

Somewhat amused, I said, “Ghizal, did you say the bird flu shot or the flu shot?”

Again, a quick Dari conversation into the phone ensues. “The bird flu shot,” she says with confidence.

“Um, I don’t think that there is a ‘bird flu’ shot. I am pretty sure there is no vaccine for it. Are you sure it is not the flu shot?”

She looked at me, unsure if she should be embarrassed, amused, or working to clarify it. She relays this message to the doctor. She looks up at me, and says somewhat crestfallen—“Yes, it is the flu shot.”